


Salvation Is Yours, If You'll Take It

by Lyra_Sanzennine



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Blood, F/M, Grinding a giant canon, Pool cues, Power Dynamics, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampires, so much UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyra_Sanzennine/pseuds/Lyra_Sanzennine
Summary: Blood and sex. Immortality yearns for death - but life crawls by, in the moments between the tedium, in the rush of a shattered throat, in the blush of a virgin thrall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2012.

Chapter 1  
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.  
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Alucard lives in the moments between Integra's breaths, between each inhalation of those cigars he hates, between each beat of her heart that he follows; even while he sleeps, while he dreams, while he kills.  
20 years in that basement – nothing more than a nap. And Alucard remembers it fondly. Starve a vampire and he dries up. His body turns into a lifeless husk, frozen in time, in space. The black bonds of his restraints are a sideshow and he wears them because he likes them.

Sometimes he feels the madness creeping in and he clings to the feel of his bondage, their tight straps across his chest, his arms, cutting off the circulation he doesn't have.

Time passes by without indication. No human heartbeat to count the seconds. No sun to mark the days. Only his hunger that gnaws at his mind steadily until it becomes nothing more than a dull background ache that blots out the memories.

When he is desiccated he is dry. When he is dry, there can be no tears. And Alucard had learned long ago that if he could not weep then he could not dream, and in that limbo, there was peace.  
.  
.  
.  
She came to him like the sea. His oasis in the desert.

He remembers the sound of the gun, the cry of the girl. The sudden flood of pain and fear in his cell, and the flare of his hunger.

He licked the blood up, tonguing the floor, relishing the taste of a virgin beneath his lips. He remembers the feel of long legs wrapped around his body as he drove his fangs deep into the soft flesh of a woman's belly, her thigh, her cunt. With his fingers pressed deep inside of them, he remembers the feeling of convulsions around his knuckles, their screams as they arched in sweet agony into his mouth, the flavors of endorphins and ecstasy in the blood.

One tasted of cinnamon. Another of citrus. But there had been so many, they blurred together in his memories until all that was clear was the ache in his teeth, in his loins, and the warmth that slowly stretched through his body, from cell to cell, from tongue to toe.

Except once or twice, when he'd tasted caramel and chocolate on the edges of a woman's pleasure, and he'd felt the longing lance through him. For home. For his kingdom. His lost court. The distant memory of dobos on his tongue, his silent heart had clenched in regret and when the woman had come down from her release, her eyes unfogging to look down at him with a dreamy, satisfied smile. When he tasted the change in her blood that continued to flow beneath his lips, he changed just as swiftly, from yearning to rage and it was easier, so much easier, as he imagined his dead heart pumping a deafening staccato, as his teeth lengthened to monstrous points too large for his head, as he tore his plaything to pieces and drained every last drop, consuming her soul, her essence, her drop of power in his ocean of hate, all the while knowing that home was gone, erased, obliterated by his sins and it would never be found to last between a woman's legs.  
.  
.  
.  
Integra tasted of defiance. Proud Hellsing heir, he'd recognized her lineage the instant her blood touched his tongue.

The men were in the way, the cause of the girl's terror, and had to be eliminated. Alucard was possessive of all his things, and he would not share her fear.

When they were all dead, he lunged at the little girl, wrapping his tall frame around her, trapping her against the stone wall. Submit to me, his body demanded. As he sang his siren song, promising protection and safety, he listened to the beat of her heart and clung to its strong, rising tempo. He watched as she held firm, defied him against all reason. The clenching of her jaw, the beads of sweat at her hairline. But she did not falter for a moment. Her small hands clutching the pistol aimed at his face.

Oh, she was Arthur's heir all right, and he would serve her willingly, with enthusiasm, with gusto.

This wisp of a human girl. So young. Alucard knew then that she would be great. Could be nothing else.

He would load the magazine. He would pull the slide. He would remove the safety.

But each and every time, she would be the one to pull the trigger. His master. Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.

And he would live in the space of her decisions. In the strength of her conviction. In the agony of her dilemmas as she trades off lives and orders men to their deaths.

He loves the way she stops breathing in the instant before she issues him an order to kill. In each moment of silence he waits and wonders if today is the day she will break.

.  
.  
.

Sure, her job is stressful and she's determined to play the man of the household. Certainly, she can't afford to look weak in any way so long as she still lives in a man's world.

But it is a game they play, and Alucard knows that Integra knows that he knows.

Sometimes, in the moonlight, when the night is particularly still and not a footstep can be heard throughout the great Hellsing mansion, Integra sits in her office chair, turned sideways from her desk. The shadows darken her face, but Alucard can see the way that the moon silvers her hair and to him she looks like she's lit from within. From his place on bended knee before her, he looks up at her with a maniacal grin upon his lips and holds perfectly still. A low, animal growl comes from his throat, but her human ears can't hear it. All she can feel is the tremor that runs up her spine and the chill that caresses her arms.

She is bristling as she sits there and her breaths are quietly ragged. She fights the urge fold her arms over her chest and rub at her shoulders and biceps. And she knows that Alucard knows.

Her lips part slightly and he is transfixed on them. He knows that they will feel hot on his cold, dead flesh. He knows that she knows that he would taste of black ice and that she sometimes dreams about his skin beneath her tongue anyway.

He lives in the space between her lips, anticipating each moment what will come next.

Slowly, she peels the pristine white glove from her right hand. The fabric stretches slowly over her joints, and each articulation is a moment of suspended breath, as millimeter by millimeter the cloth comes away to reveal the dusky skin beneath. Her hands are rough and calloused from years of training. From swords and guns and the blood of humans and monsters alike.

She crumples the glove in her left hand and leaves it to rest on her lap. She reaches her bare hand out towards him and his grin grows wider. His hat and glasses are gone, and only his mess of hair obscures the inferno in his eyes. Her forefinger lingers on his lower lip as he opens his mouth slightly to allow her passage. He can detect the barest shiver course through her body, he can see the tension in her right shoulder, even through the padding of her masculine suit jacket, and he hardens in response.

Her fingertip reaches his left fang and she deliberately drags her flesh across the sharp point. He sees her lips tighten oh so slightly at the pain before the first drop of her virgin blood drips onto his tongue.

She tastes like she did ten years ago, of pride and determination, an iron will that refuses to bend, least of all to him. But now her blood is flavored with tar and tobacco. Innocence and filth. Master and servant. He hates the taste of her almost as much as he loves it, and he knows that deep within herself, Integra prays that the cigars will be enough to keep them apart.

She knows that he knows why she smokes and for now it is enough, as it must be.

Walter pretends not to see these moments, faithful servant that he is, but everyone knows that he knows and no one breaks the code of silence.

And for now, Alucard lives in the drops that his master feeds him, from moment to moment, alleviating the boredom and the torment that is his life.  
.  
.  
.  
________________________________________


	2. Chapter 2

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Seras lives in the proud tilt of her master’s head. In his disdainful sneer at almost everything around him.

And when that sneer is turned on her, she trembles, on her knees under cover of his shadow, his tall form looming dark before her.

Coward, he calls her.

She wraps her arms around herself and looks down at the floor. His presence is suffocating, and she feels as though her heart should be pounding so hard that she would fear it leaping from her chest. But the night is silent between his words and she waits at his feet for his commands.

When he tells her to follow she hears a glimmer of fondness in his voice. It’s in the way his tone softens, barely noticeable, and she knows that he is still pleased with her company.

She leaps to her feet and trails behind him obediently. And she tries to ignore the forbidden thoughts that lurk in the corners of her mind. They are formless and foreign, but she knows that when he looks at her with that burning gaze, when he orders her to drink, to kill, the muscles between her legs clench, she feels breathless, and her vision clouds dark red.

His voice is black velvet to her sensitive ears and he’s taken to materializing behind her, to reaching out a gloved hand and grasping a lock of her hair, and with that quiet steel undertone that’s ever present, he says, Police girl… and more often than not she is startled out of her wits. She screams and instinctively strikes out against the intruder to her senses. Her elbow finds purchase against her master’s chest, and she feels his vicious glee as he allows his body to cave beneath the blow. His aura can’t be seen, but she can feel it shift about him, gliding over them both as he savors the sharp pain and the warm sensation of his blood inching forward, across his clothes, trickling from his wound.

Without effort, he grasps her arm and flings her down and away from him, like a child brushing an ant from its leg. Seras lands hard on the side of her body and scrambles upright, wincing. She looks up and sees him moving towards her, slowly, steadily, one foot and then the other. He likes to stalk her this way, and Seras reflects that when they’re alone, she seems to spend most of her time at his feet.

He never touches her, though she yearns for it. And in moments of sheer insanity, she contemplates leaning towards him when he kneels over her body, pressing her backwards into the cold marble floors of the hallway, his hands on either side of her face. Once, dazed, she had lifted her hand towards his face, gripped by a desperation to touch him and know what lay beyond his mad eyes and feral grin. But he had reached out and razed her with the force of his mind, his aura, and she had collapsed and convulsed against the floor, losing all sensation of the red fabric of his duster and cravat whispering softly against her neck, her arms, her legs. She had screamed in agony under the force of his censure, her mind crying Master! And then he had disappeared, leaving her shaking on the ground to pick herself up just as a guard came to investigate.

_Ms. Victoria, are you alright?_

_Oh, yes, she’d laughed, I just tripped. I’m so clumsy sometimes!_

And then she’d made her way slowly to her room for the dawn, wondering absently at the slick feeling of her underwear sliding against her lower lips with every step.

.  
.  
.

But sometimes he strokes her hair softly as he instructs her on how to reach out her vampiric senses and gauge her surroundings. He teaches her how to taste the air and smell the fear of mortal beings for miles around. He corrects her on the use of Harkonnen, he touches the Casull to her thigh, shifting her a centimeter here, an inch there, and the cold touch of the metal makes her shiver.

In the privacy of her chambers, as she cleans her cannon with the rocking motion of a rag, she can’t help but think of her weapon as a symbol of her master. It gave her strength, made her deadly. It took lives without compunction, hard and cold beneath her fingers.

Closing her eyes, she leans her cannon against the wall and allows her hand to trail down between her legs. She remembers the temptation of his large form, so close behind her small body, but always beyond his permission to reach. To her, he is enormous, not just in body, but in spirit, in evil, in malice. The force of his will feels like a thousand - a million - bloodied souls and she licks her lips thinking about how she wants to see what he hides beneath all those clothes. She wants him to consume her, to drain her, to envelop her completely so that she is lost within the tide of his being.

But as she grinds herself against her gun, her mind filled with images of blood and terror and a glowing pentagram on white gloves, she knows that more than that, she wants life, she wants love, and she will settle for nothing less.

The cannon is unyielding between her legs, and she knows that if she were human, the pressure of cold steel against the inseam of her skirt, biting into her tender clit, would make her cry out in pain, in violation. She would whimper and she would cringe and she would certainly not feel the heat travel so slowly, so sweetly, up her abdomen to her flushed face, as she presses herself harder against the gun.

But she is a vampire now, a Draculina. She is ice and she is steel, so she closes her eyes and dreams of red cloth and black hair and white gloves that she so desperately wants wrapped around her throat. She leans her forehead against the barrel of her gun and grits her teeth, submitting to the sweet agony of this self-inflicted torture.

She comes with a stifled moan, arching against the shaft of her cannon, _Master_ a whisper on her lips.

Unseen, on the wall behind her, a pair of blood-red eyes blink closed and vanish without a trace.

.  
.  
.

Seras doesn’t know what her master sees in her, but she’s happy to accept the bits of affection he shows. She knows that he cares for her, and that is enough, for now.

But she sees the way that her master defers to Sir Integra, the way he looks at her with a barely restrained hunger. She sees his devotion, his respect, and she craves his approval with every fiber of her being.

Seras knows that her master cherishes this strange, unbreakable woman. He’s told her himself, Integra’s spirit, her will, her fire, they draw him like moth to flame. Integra is everything that Alucard wishes he could have been. Her faith and her humanity, she would never discard. She does not succumb to despair. She is so very alive, each and every moment, and for that, Seras thinks that Alucard must love her.

She prays that he never finds out, but as day turns to dusk, sometimes she feels the edges of his quiet despair on her psyche. Thick, inky tendrils reach out and threaten to ensnare her as her master dreams of forgotten lands, forgotten lives, forgotten loves. Sorrow cuts deep, and she is always left shaking and cold in her solitary coffin.

Seras is sure that if her master knew that she knew, he would kill her and never look back.

So for now she contents herself with learning to live. She watches the master of her master, the proud tilt of her head, the firm line of her lips, the cold determination in her brilliant blue eyes. Seras will never be Sir Integra, but she will watch and she will learn, and she will live from moment to moment, between the orders that Integra issues, between the mocking words of her master, between her legs where she burns with a deep, dark hunger that’s never quite satisfied by the familiar exploration of her fingers.

For now Seras contents herself with stolen glances when he isn’t looking.

But she knows that one day she will live in the moment when her master will smile at her as an equal and she will grasp his hand as a queen of the night.

.  
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.


	3. Chapter 3

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Integra knows that she can never give in, so she does a thousand and one things to reinforce her position. For God, and queen, and country – for the honor of the great Hellsing name - she steels herself and grits her teeth. She plays her role, oh so very dutifully.

Integra is, at the very least, content with her life, as she stares out of her office windows overlooking the training grounds below, where her soldiers are performing their daily drills. She watches as one of her officers soundly beats a new recruit, knocking the young man’s legs out from underneath him. His backside hits the ground and he curls his body slightly in pain. She nods to herself in approval.

She is rich and she is powerful, but there isn’t a day that passes by where she wonders what it would feel like to throw honor and obligation to the wind and let her passions take her.  
.  
.  
.  
Once she dreamt that she was entertaining Sir Penwood with a game of billiards. Politicking and whatnot.

The older gentleman isn’t half bad with a cue, and as the sun begins its slow decent outside of the west-facing window, they chat as they always do about armaments and military strategy. Sir Penwood isn’t nearly as useless as he seems to think he is, and Integra remembers him fondly from her childhood.

She is dressed in her usual suit, but the jacket has been discarded over a chair in favor of the range of motion she needs to line up each shot perfectly.

She’s winning, of course. After all, it is her dream.

As she bends over the table, she can feel Penwood’s eyes lingering on the flat plane of her back and the curves of her hips, hidden though they are in her masculine trousers. When she pulls her right arm back, her well-toned tricep is taut against the white fabric of her sleeve. She imagines that he is imagining the lines of her shoulders, the path down her ribs, the firm skin over her abdominals – all things he will never see.

She sinks the 8-ball with authority and slowly straightens herself, turning her head to the side to look at her opponent, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

Well? Her expression says, I’ve won again. What are you going to do about that?

In the next instant, Penwood’s large body is pinning her smaller frame against the table rail and his hands are in her hair. Integra leans back slightly, nonchalantly resting her hands against the green felt and wood frame on either side of her. When he kisses her sloppily she takes a moment to appreciate the warmth of another human’s body against her legs, her lips. Penwood is soft and flabby, and Integra finds this as amusing as she finds it distasteful. But she knows that this will not last, that it will never mean anything, and so she waits and does not wait long.

A chill suddenly seeps into the air around them, and it feels so foreign in the warm light of the sunset that casts rose shadows across the room. Penwood is only able to register the sensation as a quiet dread that suddenly causes him to feel cold and clammy. His senses are on high alert and he quickly opens his eyes and steps back, clearing his throat. He reaches up towards his neck and loosens his tie a bit, pulling the crisp, constricting collar of his white dress shirt away from his body. He avoids her eyes.

“Forgive me, Sir Integra, but the hour is late and I should be heading home.”

She nods and exchanges goodbye pleasantries with her old friend, though neither of them are paying attention. Penwood just wants to get the fuck out of the Hellsing manor, his thoughts filled with unformed feelings of guilt and fear.

Walter escorts him to the door.

Integra is still leaning against the table, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on the wall in front of her.

Her vampire is a possessive one, and he does not keep her waiting.

When Alucard appears, it is straight through the wall. First the tip of one black boot, his knee, encased in thick black fabric, the red brim of his hat. He is grinning like a deranged maniac, and she can’t see his eyes behind the yellow glass of his lenses.

Teeth bared, he strides towards her and even though he fills the air with a frost that caresses her skin and lingers as a chill upon her mind, she doesn’t shiver or fidget.

Within the space of a breath, he is before her, and her vampire is cool to the touch, his body hard against her thighs and stomach. He places his gloved hands on either side of hers, his thumbs barely stroking the knuckles of her pinkie fingers. He shifts his lower body slightly, and before she knows it he’s firmly pushed her legs further apart to settle his own in between them.

She can feel his erection, cold against her heat.

“That wasn’t very nice, Servant,” she says.

“You shouldn’t be such a cock tease, Master,” he replies.

Alucard smirks at her as he gently trails his hand up the sleeve of her white dress shirt. “You do know that they all want to fuck you, don’t you Master?” he asks.

Integra reaches up and knocks his wide brimmed hat off his head. It disappears out of her sight behind him with a soft whisper of cloth against cloth. “The thought has crossed my mind, Servant,” she says.

His fingers are skillfully untying her cravat. Without touching her skin, he pulls the red fabric away and undoes the top button of her shirt. “Penwood wants you to look up at him all moon-eyed and idiotic, like a love struck little girl while he fucks you gently,” Alucard says.

Integra lifts both her hands to either side of his face, grasping the sides of his glasses with the tips of her fingers. She tosses them to the side and hears them clatter against the hardwood floor. “I know,” she says.

“Taylor wants to have you on your knees while he fucks your throat and watches you cry,” Alucard says. His voice is a deep, low rumble that reverberates through his chest and dances across her skin. He releases the second button of her shirt, his dark red eyes never leaving hers.

“I highly doubt that he’s big enough to reach the back of my tongue, much less my throat,” Integra says as she places her hands back down on the table behind her. The light of the setting sun washes her monster in an artificial blush, giving life to his pallor. She wants to touch his cheekbones, but she holds herself in check.

“And Edwards! Edwards wants to bend you over…” Alucard’s left hand is braced on the tabletop as his right flattens out to cover the skin of her throat and collar bone that he’s exposed. He leans in.

“Right over the Round Table…”

Alucard’s hand is exerting the slightest of pressure against her sternum, and despite herself, she shudders at his cold touch. She leans backwards, slowly, following the leisurely pace he’s set.

“And cut your ugly man clothes to shreds…”

As Integra’s lower back starts to contact the table, her hands grip the ledge and she shimmies upwards and back. She lets her vampire lower her so that she’s lying on the felt top. Her legs are slightly bent, knees resting on either side of his hips.

“He wants to fuck you like an animal…” He looms over her and his breath is cool against her cheek.

“Like a desperate little bitch in heat…” He undoes her third button. A glimpse of her plain white bra comes into view.

“And he wants to hear you scream as he uses you…” Alucard is gently brushing errant strands of her long hair away from her neck. He runs the tip of one finger from the back of her earlobe to her collarbone.

“As he rides you until you beg him to stop…”

Her vampire’s pupils are dilated, and there is only a thin circle of red left of his irises. Integra doesn’t look away.

“He wants to grab you by the hair…” Strong fingers are suddenly tangled by her scalp. They grip her tightly, tilting her head to the side, further exposing her neck. Integra winces slightly at the pain.

“Throw you to the ground…”

His teeth are mere inches from her throat.

“And cum on your pretty little face.”

Alucard grazes the curved surface of his fangs against Integra’s pulsing carotid artery and she arches her back in response.

“Are you sure that’s what _Edwards_ wants to do?” she asks, her voice icy.

He pulls away with a wicked grin. “Oh, Integra. I’ve always thought you’d look much prettier with my cum here,” he strokes her lower lip, “And here” his fingers brush against the side of her chin.

“I suppose even monsters should be allowed to dream,” she says.

Slowly, deliberately, Alucard takes hold of each of Integra’s wrists with his hands. He pushes her arms up to rest above either side of her head and then grips her crossed wrists firmly with one hand. With his other, he reaches down to the waistband of her trousers.

“My master, you are far too young and innocent to even begin to guess at my dreams,” he says.

Integra resents that. She hates losing the upper hand, but he’s right. She knows that her monster has seen and done things for centuries that could never cross her virgin mind.

But that hardly makes her innocent.

She lets him shred her pants between his gloved fingers. His dark energy slices the green fabric to ribbons and within seconds, her clothing is hanging off of her body in ruins. She knows that if she were to struggle and protest, only the devil would know whether or not Alucard would obey her commands to behave.

So she stays still and stares him down, daring him silently to do as he will.

Her favorite cue stick materializes in his hand, and she gasps in shock as he shifts his grip on the shaft and grazes the butt end against the inner seam of her briefs. Her gaze slips away from his eyes to that very hand, and she can see the clear definition of his joints beneath the white cloth and black pentagram that encases his skin. She is fixated on the line of his wrist as he twists the cue slightly back and forth, caressing her entrance through the flimsy material that covers her.

Her jaw tenses when gently drags the cue to the side and with another slow, careful twist of his wrist, her undergarment is pushed aside. The polished wood slides down against her slick folds.

She meets his unblinking eyes.

Another twist and the pressure increases.

Integra forgets to breathe  
.  
.  
.  
When Integra wakes, the sun is hot upon her face and all she remembers is a vortex of black and red, and a man’s white glove upon a green table.

She ignores the strange ache between her thighs and heads straight to the bathroom for a long, cold shower.  
.  
.  
.  
Behind her, the sun is setting. Integra is hunched over her desk, buried in her work as always.

When Alucard makes his appearance that night, she swears he’s smirking just a little more than usual. But all these thoughts are useless and Integra will never give in to her base desires. She levels a frosty glare at her servant over the rims of her glasses.

“You seem especially tense tonight, my master,” He says, baring all those very sharp teeth.

Integra ignores the way that his black hair falls carelessly over his pale forehead and yellow lenses.

“There are so many things that I could do to help you relax,” he says. He is advancing towards her, step by step, his boots clicking softly against the marble beneath.

When he comes within arm’s reach, she calmly grasps the pistol hidden under her desk and unloads three blessed silver bullets into his chest. Alucard vanishes in a swirl of shadows, his laughter echoing across the walls long after he is gone.

Integra knows that she can never have what she craves in the darkest of nights when she is alone beneath the covers. She knows that she must live for honor, and duty, and she would never want it any other way.

So for now she contents herself with position and power, cigarettes and alcohol.

Integra lives in the smoky haze of her cigars and the flat lines of her suit layers.

And she tells herself that she never wonders if there could be more.  
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.


	4. Chapter 4

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Alucard lives in the flush that stains his fledgling’s cheeks. When he turns his ancient gaze to her and stares far past the surface of her pupils, he reminds her that he has tasted her soul.

And he likes what he has found there.

His Police Girl pleases him, though he rarely lets it show.

Centuries ago she would have been old enough to be a mother of three. Instead, his fledgling is little more than a child, quite literally a blushing virgin, and Alucard is privately amused that both his master and his servant would faint if he ever told them half of the things he’d done – could do – to such little girls.

Integra never blushes, and Alucard likes it that way.

But when Seras peers up at him from beneath long lashes, her cheeks stained pale rose, he feels a rush of warmth creep slowly up his cold chest. He knows that he has chosen well, and one day, he knows that she will prove it.  
.  
.  
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When she lines up her scope, steadies her stance, and guns down her enemy with the Harkonnen, she is beautiful. Sometimes she still pants from exertion, habits unbroken from her human past.

Alucard watches the rise and fall of her chest, straining against her uniform. The black and red Hellsing crest moves rhythmically, hypnotically, up and down, above her left breast. 

When she lifts her eyes to meet his, he nods at her slightly, and vanishes into the night. 

Yes, she would be so much more powerful if she drank her blood. Yes, he would always mock her for her human weakness and soft heart, a ridiculous trait in his Draculina. And yes, from time to time, he would toy with her senses and impress upon her the vast chasm that lay between her flimsy newborn abilities and his constellation of original powers. 

But in the privacy of his suffocating thoughts, in the absolute darkness of his final domain, he knows that he will always admire her spirit, and the way she fights her bloody compulsions, every step of the way.  
.  
.  
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If Integra is the sea, then Seras is the sun. 

She comes to him as a flame when the night is black as pitch and he’s lost himself in the pain he seeks at his adversaries’ hands. 

She drags him back and begs him to live. To remember. 

Yes, that’s right. 

It cannot end here. 

It cannot end now. 

It cannot end like this.  
.  
.  
.

He is the father, a taint borne of grief, and the weight of his sins fall heavy upon the generations he has sired. 

And so Seras Victoria, his Police Girl, will live, but she will do so to the beat of her own drum, blatantly disregarding his ethos as all adolescents are wont to do. 

She pleases him deeply, and Alucard knows that between her kind heart and her enormous cannon, she will become uniquely great.  
.  
.  
.

In the last hours of the night, after the day’s freak hunt is complete and the humans are all asleep, Alucard sits in his throne in the dungeons. Between his fingers, he grasps the delicate stem of his wine glass, swirling the cold transfusion blood around and around, a gentle red cyclone contained in crystal. 

Seras rests at his feet, and she is deliciously attentive. Her eyes are fixated on the blood, then his face, and she waits patiently for the night’s lessons.

Her legs are curled beneath her, tucked to the side, her thighs pressed together demurely. One hand rests upon her booted ankles, the other is braced on the ground at her hip. The light of the torches dances through her short hair and illuminates her locks like strawberry wine. Her eyes are still as blue as the midday sky, and he doesn’t know whether they will be more or less beautiful when they glow like the harvest moon.

On nights like these, he speaks to her about their master, the proud history of Hellsing, the never-ending war that she has been dragged into.

Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly charitable, he reaches out and grasps a lock of her bangs, letting the strands slip between his gloved fingers slowly. With the silent permission of his mind, he urges her closer, and she follows and obeys, coordinating her feet and legs to shift her body forward, just a few inches, so that she can rest her head against his knee. 

As he gently strokes her hair, he tells her about the Queen. 

Sometimes, as Seras listens, she absently fidgets against his shin. He feels the soft pressure of her breasts as they flatten against the leather of his tall boots. 

He tells her about the difference between the artificial freaks and true creatures of the night. She hangs on to every word. 

Sometimes she absently strokes her cheek against the side of his thigh. And sometimes his fingertips drift from the hair at her temple down to the curve of her ear, the line of her jaw.

When she asks him about his life before Hellsing, his fingers subtly stiffen where they are on the back of her neck. Her eyes widen and he watches as her senses suddenly shift to high alert, responding to the coiled tension and leashed darkness that thrums throughout her master’s body.

She quickly casts her gaze downwards and presses her forehead to his knee in supplication.

Alucard knows that she acts out of pure vampiric instinct. The blood knows, and so long as he is Master and she is Servant, she will respond just so to the slightest of his moods. 

And Alucard loves the tremor of her shoulders, the goose bumps on her arms, the downwards tilt of her chin. He loves the way she looks up at him in both fear and adoration. The way she swallows hard as she waits silently for his response. 

But most of all, he loves the fact that she will never be an obedient little slave, always at his beck and call. She will never bleed herself dry at his command. She will never kill indiscriminately for his approval. And she will never lie back and let him fuck her for his pleasure.

His little Draculina dreams of things that have long since flown from his grasp.

One day she will have them all.

But for now Alucard lives in the moments between his fledgling’s dreams. He is the blackest night; the backdrop of the north star. 

And oh, how brightly she shines.

.  
.  
.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a consummate attention whore and live off your reviews. Please leave me a note and let me know you're enjoying the story and want to see more. Or, you know, that I'm whacked and scare the shit out of you. That's cool too.  
> We all know that Hellsing is just sex in disguise. Yep. Until next time.  
> -Lyra


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